by Vicki Keire
“Ah well, there’s the thing,” he said, shifting his weight. “Belial never had any intention of letting the little one go. Why would he, when she’s cooperating so nicely?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, letting my hands swing loose. Let the Shadows flow if need be. “This is ridiculous. I suppose your buddy is hiding in the trees, waiting to drag me down to the Dark Realms, kicking and screaming, while you keep the girl? I’d be alarmed if your plan was even the slightest bit original.”
“Now honey,” he said, advancing on me. “Don’t be that way.”
“She’s right,” drawled a familiar voice from the mist-shrouded trees. “A terrible plan. Did you think of it by yourself? Or did Nerius? I thought the two of you shared a brain.” A bone white body wrapped in red leather launched itself from the trees, landing between the Dark Nephilim and me. “Caspia,” he said evenly. “You forgot your jacket.” A pile of black leather landed at my feet in a thud. “Please put it on.”
“Oh,” I said stupidly. At that moment, Asheroth frightened me more than anyone else.
“Are you deaf?” he asked. He and the Nephilim in snakeskin had backed slightly away from me and adopted a slow but intense circling pattern.
“Maybe,” I admitted, but I scooped up the familiar, beloved pile of fabric. I held it to me like a teddy bear.
“Nerius isn’t here, Ash,” the Dark Nephilim hissed. Asheroth’s diamond eyes narrowed to slits.
“He hates it when people call him Ash,” Ethan whispered in my ear.
First, I screamed. Ethan anticipated that; his warm hand was right there over my mouth. Then I spun around, completely disregarding the danger behind me. “What are you doing here?” I hissed. “I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”
“Sshh, Cas, it’s ok,” he whispered. He turned us sideways so neither one of us had our backs to danger. “Your Jack told me. He’s come to me twice now since you dreamed up this stupid plan. You can’t think he’d let you just turn yourself over like this. That either of us would. I’m sorry it’s come to this. I didn’t… I wouldn’t…” He squared his shoulders against mine. “We’ll figure it out, ok?”
For the first time I looked at him, really looked at him, in the moonlight. He held a gently curving blade, shining silver like my twin daggers and etched with designs like the ones on Jack’s skin. It was beautiful. “My God, you’ve got it,” I whispered, awed. “Azazel’s blade. And whose jacket is that?”
“It came with the sword. I assume it belongs to your Jack.” He said his name with only a slight twist of his mouth.
“He’s not my…” I started to say, but then Asheroth and the Dark Nephilim went for each other. Ethan took his old jacket, mine now, and held it out.
“He’s right about this. You really should put it on. What were you thinking?”
“I was leaving it for you,” I said as the two Nephilim, one mad and one Dark, fought each other in a fast-moving blur. Ethan had a funny look on his face as he helped me into it.
And then I saw her, a child among the trees. With long blond hair and wide, terrified eyes, she froze as soon as she realized she’d been spotted. “Hey!” I called, elbowing Ethan. “Caroline! Wait! Don’t go anywhere! We’re here for you!” The girl stood perfectly still against one of the larger trees. She didn’t run, but she didn’t lose the look of terror either. “Do you see her, Ethan?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said uneasily. I started for her. I hadn’t gone four steps when he grabbed my forearm, hard. “Caspia, wait! Something’s not right.”
The girl’s face fell. “I’m sorry,” she said in a whisper so soft I almost didn’t hear her. “I don’t want to. But he’ll hurt my dad.”
I have never seen such a look of pure torture on a child’s face. I ached for her. I wanted to do anything to erase it. “What is it, sweetie?” I asked, starting for her again. “Don’t be afraid. You’re safe now. You can come with us, and we can take you to your dad.”
Then I heard the howling. Deep, rumbling howls that raised chills all along my neck and spine and settled in my bones like the dampest winter cold. On and on it went, like tornado sirens but lower and getting closer by the minute, promising that skin would tear and bones would crunch.
“Caspia,” Ethan said. He was white with terror. He shoved me behind him, Azazel’s blade raised before him in both hands. “Run.”
“What?” I staggered and almost fell. The inhuman sounds grew closer. “What is it?”
“Hellhounds,” he said. He stared at the girl. “You’re the kidnapped girl. Caroline. Your gift is animals, and he’s using you to control Hellhounds.” Ethan planted his feet and stared through the trees. “Caspia. You have to warn the town.”
“He’ll hurt my dad,” the girl said. She sobbed, her back plastered against a tree trunk. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to, but the lady has to come with us.”
Arms wreathed with expensive, familiar cologne snaked around my waist. “Miss Chastain. Hello again,” Dr. Christian said against my ear. “You’re doing very well. Just a little bit more of this unpleasantness, and we’ll have you safe and sound with Belial.” His hands held my wrists in an iron grip. Paralyzing cold pinned me against my former professor.
“Ethan,” I ground out through clenched teeth. “Meet Dr. Christian.” White cold exploded behind my eyes, like the worst slushy-induced brain freeze on earth. My knees buckled.
I could see the first of several dark shapes hurtling towards us through the trees. Ethan swore, torn between the approaching threat and the one holding me motionless beside him. “Asheroth!” he screamed, and turned his back on the Hellhounds. “Let her go,” he warned, advancing on Dr. Christian with blade extended.
The former professor’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard about you. I didn’t believe it at first. But you really are mortal.” He said it like a curse word. “Your brother will be disappointed. It will make killing you less sporting.”
Brother? Um, what?
Dr. Christian ran his fingers up the back of my neck like spiders, gathering my hair in his fist. He pulled my head up so hard it hurt. “I hope he doesn’t take it out on her.”
Ethan growled like the Nephilim he’d been. “He won’t touch her.” One quick downward slash, almost too fast for sight, proved that Dr. Christian was mortal. Red blood soaked his expensive pants leg in one long ugly gash.
That made me even happier than the fact that he dropped me on my face. If the bastard could bleed, then I was going to kill him.
Strong human hands yanked me to my feet. River bright eyes bored into mine. A whole universe of words lay between us and there was no time. Death on four legs was all around us, its breath hot with sulphur and rage. But all I could do was stand there in the few seconds we had before being ripped apart, maybe literally, and think about how badly I’d fucked everything up. I was a liar and an arsonist and a dream-cheat and I’d just unleashed Hellhounds on my town because I couldn’t even competently turn myself over to the enemy. But I loved him. At that moment, it was all I knew how to do.
I rubbed the wing clasp of his bracelet with my thumb. He nodded once and said one word. I think it was, “Survive.”
And then they were on us, shapes as black as night with red eyes and sharp teeth, and all I could do was scream his name over and over. Caroline was suddenly beside me, and Dr. Christian on my other side. I don’t know if she moved or we did, but she held out both hands to the creatures and snarled at them. They parted around us like an ocean of teeth and shadow. Twelve-year-old Caroline Bedford stood like a boulder parting the waves; my old art professor held me tighter than chains. I stared into the creatures rushing past us towards my town for any glimpse of Ethan or Asheroth, of anything familiar at all.
There was nothing. Ethan was gone, swarmed by a tide of black shapes with wicked sharp claws and teeth and fiery eyes.
I struggled. I screamed. I kicked and clawed and bit and cried and wept. Every kind of Shadow I’d ever summoned erupted from
me in waves until I was cocooned in cold darkness. Later, I would realize I’d been brought through a Dark Realm portal. Right then I just knew the unforgiving arms restraining me were gone and I had random thoughts about hurting twelve-year-olds.
Gradually, I became aware of sensations outside of myself. Things even more unpleasant than the shell of darkness I’d woven around myself intruded into my thoughts. I was cold, for one thing. It was a terrible, bone-chilling, and dead-of winter cold. I curled tight into a ball and cried. Eventually I realized I was lying on dusty, rocky terrain and that dirt, sand, and rocks had worked their way into my hair, clothes, and mouth. I didn’t care.
I think I might have stayed there for the rest of my short miserable life if I hadn’t become aware of a gentle, repetitive movement. It took me a while to realize it, but someone was stroking my hair and face through the half-darkness. I wondered who it was, and how long it had been going on. Then I decided I didn’t care again, and ignored things for a while. When the cold got so bad I bit my tongue bloody, the gentle stroking turned into insistent shaking.
“Come on, Caspia,” said a familiar voice. “That’s enough. I’m not going to let you die out here in the wastelands. Not in the plan.”
I pried my sore eyes open. Someone had covered me with a fur-lined jacket. It was kind of pretty, actually; black suede embroidered with silver. Then I hated myself for noticing something so petty when Ethan… I pulled the jacket up over my head and curled back into a ball.
“Ok, we’ll do it the hard way.” The owner of the voice peeled the jacket away and poured freezing water on my face. I scrambled into a sitting position, rubbing my face furiously. Covered with dust, I only managed to make myself muddy. Instead of screams of protest, what came out was a kind of pathetic mewling sound. “Wow. You look terrible in person.”
My jaw dropped. Resting on his heels, barefoot as always, was Jack. He wore black suede pants with the same kind of embroidery as the jacket, and a loose white shirt. His sharp face was creased with concern. I tried to swallow. My throat felt like sandpaper. “You’re wearing clothes,” I croaked out.
The worry lines on his face relaxed a little, and he laughed weakly. “She makes a joke!” He handed me what was left of the water he’d poured on my face. “You had me worried.” He closed his eyes and inhaled as if meditating, or praying, before letting it go. He looked at me with something closer to calm. “More than worried. I’d tell you I’m glad to see you, but I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.” He stood and held out a hand. His black eyes held mine steadily. “Can you stand?”
I let him haul me up. “With help, maybe.” My voice was as dead as the landscape. Everything was flat and gray. For miles and miles, there was nothing but rock and gray terrain. Ahead, I could see a gray stone building. It had to be our destination. There was no place else to go. Jack slid an arm around my shoulder. I leaned heavily on him. “Where are we? The Dark Realms?”
“Belial’s piece of them,” he said. Although I moved my feet, Jack pretty much carried me the rest of the way to the gray stone building. As we crossed a long low paved area in front, I realized it was actually huge, consuming the horizon in front of me. He stopped several feet in front of the door. We looked back the way we’d come. The sky was the scintillating purple I remembered from my dream. “Welcome to the Twilight Kingdom, where the sun never quite sets or rises.”
“This was my favorite time of day, back home. The lights in the park would come on right about now, and the fountain would light up.” I grabbed his shirt in both hands. “Oh my God, Jack. Caroline. She set Hellhounds loose…”
He covered my mouth with both of his hands and pulled me close. “Sshh,” he whispered, so softly I could barely hear. “We have to go in now. It’s very dangerous here, and I’ll have to act differently around Belial than I do when we’re alone. Even some of the gifted aren’t safe. Whatever I do or say, you must trust me. I’ll do my best to explain when we’re alone later.”
“Wait,” I hissed. “What do you mean? We’re meeting Belial now?” I pulled away from him, eyeing the ironbound door.
“It’s ok.” He wrapped his hand around my forearm. “Remember, we’re the last two Azalene warriors. Belial wants to keep us happy. Nothing’s going to happen to you.” He pulled me close again and whispered in my ear. “You can Dreamwalk with me later and we’ll make contact with the outside. With Ethan, and anyone else we need.”
I thought of Ethan, of the last vision I had of him before he disappeared in a stream of nightmares. I don’t think he made it, Jack, I wanted to say, but couldn’t. “I don’t care,” I said wearily. “I don’t care what happens to me.”
Jack looked alarmed. I focused on my breathing as he led me inside. “For now, you just have to meet Belial,” he said. The ceiling was so high above us I had to squint to see the cross beams. Far in the distance, so far it seemed no bigger than a palm full of sparks, a fireplace kept the chill off. As we drew nearer, it grew until I realized the fireplace was huge. The cavernous room was not unpleasant. Tall bookshelves lined the walls. Thick rugs in black and silver lay scattered around. A few people sat at tables just far enough away that I couldn’t make out their features. They looked up, curious nonetheless. The large chair in front of us could only be…
“Is that Belial?” I whispered. The chair was turned so that we faced its back. Jack pressed against my arm harder than I expected.
“Caspia,” he said, stopping when we drew closer to the circle of firelight. His whisper deepened, grew urgent. “Don’t blame me or Ethan for keeping this from you. We thought you wouldn’t have to find out. But now that you’re here, there is some hope your innocence may protect you.”
“Protect me from what?” Innocence? Me? “Jack, you’re scaring me.”
“Whatever you do, don’t scream.” With those less than encouraging words, Jack the Azalene dragged me around the circle of firelight.
On a raised wooden chair carved with Nephilim symbols, Belial sat wearing the black and silver that was to become a familiar uniform. “Miss Chastain.” His voice was pleasant. Cultured. A red fox with fur like soft bronze stirred in his lap. A jewel-encrusted collar gleamed in the firelight as the creature licked his palm and resettled itself. “You’ve kept me waiting.”
No, I thought. Not this. Please, not this, I silently begged God.
Belial looked exactly like Ethan, down to his hands, his lips, his bone structure, and the golden highlights in his brown hair. He even held his fox as carefully as Ethan handled Abigail. There was one glaring difference: when he looked at me, the demon’s eyes were as empty as the Dark Realms themselves.
I didn’t scream. Darkness claimed me first.
To be continued in Book III of The Gifted Blood Trilogy,
Coming Fall 2011
Acknowledgements:
A huge thanks, first and foremost, to my readers. Your response to Caspia and Ethan’s story has been amazing. Thank you for following me even further into Whitfield.
To ROW80: thanks for direction, community, and advice. So many amazing writers supported me through this process, including: Stacey Wallace Benefiel, Kait Nolan, Jeff Bryan, Claire Farrell, V.J. Chambers, Claudia LaFeve, and Andrew Mocete. Thanks also to Ann C.’s DC ’09 and ’10 workshops, especially Alina, Gigi, and Mandy. Here’s looking at ’11! To my wonderful editor, because anyone can mark up an ms. It’s a whole other animal to sit down with a new, independent writer, teasing out the patterns underlying her weaknesses and helping her untangle her strengths. This is a better book because of it.
To my edge of the TIAM universe: Creativity is weird. I don’t entirely understand how the Civil Wars plus Standard Deluxe minus shoes equals my newest anti-villain, but it does. The Southeast is an amazing sonic contact zone right now, and it’s cool that TIAM has something to do with that. Thanks to Corey, Nick, and Daniel, for losing their minds and starting a record label (their words!) All the musicians who helped me make word count: The Futurebirds, Middle
Brother (but just that one song), Mark Utley, The Archibalds, Ghost Shirt, 13Ghosts, James Jackson Toth, The Only Sons, Glossary.
To Quentin: 1. Insert The Stooges. 2. Press Play. 3. Increase volume and don’t look up ‘til graduation. Maria and Ken, see steps 1-3.
To Tony, for being the sane one, (ha ha, joke’s on you!) and Nathalie, because an unexpected present in spring is better than a pile of them on your birthday.
To Mom, for never teaching me to say “I can’t.”
To Grace, who stands at the threshold of so many magical things.
To Max, whose gentle patience helps me see the good in myself.
Lastly, to Daniel:
You’re my favorite flavor of crazy,
I’m seventh-grade stupid in love with you,
and this book is all your fault.
Love you forever, V.
About the Author:
Vicki Keire grew up in a Nineteenth Century haunted house in the Deep South full of books, abandoned coal chutes, secret rooms, and plenty of places to get into trouble with her siblings. She holds advanced degrees in English Literature with specializations in the Eighteenth Century, Romanticism, and Postcolonial Theory. She most recently taught writing and literature at a large, football-obsessed university while slipping paranormal fiction in between the pages of her textbooks.
She reads so much it borders on obsessive; a book or two a day is not unusual. The domestic arts continue to mystify her well into adulthood. She has been known to buy a new outfit rather than launder an old one. She has eclectic musical tastes, enjoys other people's cooking, and keeps vampire hours. She is fond of lost causes and terrified of storms, and has a tuxedo cat named Chiaroscuro. She still lives in the Deep South with her family and pets, but is pretty sure her house isn't haunted. A person can't be so lucky twice.
